"And so good-bye, sir."
The old gentleman shook both her hands, stooped suddenly and kissed her on the forehead.
"I can't make it all out, but I'll believe the best, Mattie."
"Thank you—thank you."
The tears were blinding her, so she hastened to the door, pausing there to add—
"Tell Mr. Sidney—oh! tell him above all—to think of me, as I would think of him, whatever the world said and whoever was against him. Harriet will speak up for me when he has a doubt of my honesty, and he will believe her. Don't let my past life stand between you all and your better thoughts of me—good-bye."
Mattie was gone; she had closed the door behind her, and shut in Mr. Hinchford, who forgot his breakfast for awhile in the sudden news that had been communicated. He was forgetful at times now; his memory, though he did not care to own it, would betray him when he least expected it. In the midst of his reverie, a flash of a new recollection took away his breath, and brought his hand again to his inflexible stock.
"Good heaven!—not that letter, I hope."
He bustled into the back room, and searched nervously in the pockets of coats, waistcoats, and trousers about there. A blank expression settled on his countenance as he drew from the side-pocket of the great coat he had worn yesternight, another letter—the letter which Mattie had demanded, and he thought that he had given her.
"God bless me! she's torn up the letter that was given me to post last night!"